


Simplicitate Cordis

by Longdaysjourney



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Human Disaster Matt Murdock, Matt Murdock Needs a Hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-30
Updated: 2020-09-03
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:54:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26189044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Longdaysjourney/pseuds/Longdaysjourney
Summary: Matt slips out after the third round of drinks, seizing the unexpected reprieve while Karen and Foggy are waylaid by a Nelson uncle on their way to snag the last bottle of wine. As his palm rests against the swinging door to the Nelsons’ shop, about to push it open, he feels a momentary twinge of guilt, then shrugs it off – he’s smiled and drank and wobbled through keeping up at least a pretense of more balanced mental health. In other words, he’s exhausted, and longs for the relative quiet of damp stone walls beneath the church sacristy.
Relationships: Matt Murdock & Maggie Murdock, Matt Murdock/Claire Temple
Comments: 24
Kudos: 38
Collections: Daredevil and Defenders Exchange 2020





	1. Matt

**Author's Note:**

  * For [JokerStark](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JokerStark/gifts).



Matt slips out after the third round of drinks, seizing the unexpected reprieve while Karen and Foggy are waylaid by a Nelson uncle on their way to snag the last bottle of wine. As his palm rests against the swinging door to the Nelsons’ shop, about to push it open, he feels a momentary twinge of guilt, then shrugs it off – he’s smiled and drank and wobbled through keeping up at least a pretense of more balanced mental health. In other words, he’s exhausted, and longs for the relative quiet of damp stone walls beneath the church sacristy. 

He’s still getting used to having friends again, amazed that they keep coming back, even after all he’s done to push them away. He had meant what he said to Nadeem, on their way to the courthouse before all hell had been unleashed. Karen and Foggy are both incredible; he’s still not sure what he’s done to deserve them. 

The fog of those months alone – first, incarcerated in the prison of his mind and later, by his self-imposed exile – is finally beginning to dissipate, like sunshine stubbornly breaking through clouds. Though, now that he thinks about it, thinks about her – the slight, unassuming woman whose modest habit concealed a sharp and acerbic tongue – he had never truly been alone. 

With a shake of his head, he files away thoughts of Maggie for now – his feelings about his mother are still complicated, still unresolved, and tonight, he just wants to take a walk. 

The night air is crisp, the day’s warmth chased away with the setting sun. Matt tightens his grip around his cane and pulls his jacket closer around his body. For the moment, he’s content to feel the breeze on his face as it sweeps away the smell of the rank city, to lose himself in the sounds of Manhattan settling into its evening rhythms. 

Exhaustion limns his movements (when was the last time he’s truly been able to sleep uninterrupted?) and the twinges in his ribs and head are intrusive reminders that while they managed to put Fisk away (again), it had come at a cost. He starts towards the direction of the church, cane tapping out a path in front him, when suddenly, he catches a faint scent (bergamot and honey), carried more by currents of memory than anything else, two blocks ahead. Pausing, head cocked, he tries to pinpoint it – yup, it’s headed his way. 

With some effort, he refrains from either darting up the side of the nearest building or hastening towards the scent’s source, trying instead to maintain a measured pace while his heart beats out an anxious staccato beneath his breast.

After an instant, after an eternity, comes a softly uttered – “So, St. Matthew…reports of your death have been greatly exaggerated.” The words are wry and detached, but the heartbeat behind it is racing. Trailing eddies intensify the initial scent he detected and whips hair grown long, longer than he’s ever known it to be, around her face. Matt opens his mouth and closes it, his usual oratorical powers abruptly abandoning him. And then Claire’s stepping into his space and into his arms, gripping him tightly. 

Minutes tick past before the silence is broken. “We thought you were dead,” her voice, pretense discarded, is shaking. Matt feels dampness where she’s buried her face in the crook of his neck. Awkwardly, he strokes her hair. 

She abruptly pushes him away until they’re arms-length apart, though her hands never break contact. He feels her eyes raking over him from head to toe and, not for the first time, wonders what she sees when she looks at him. “When we saw the news…” she begins and then lowers her voice to a whisper, “reporting Daredevil’s return, none of us knew what to think.” She waits, but when it was clear Matt wouldn’t offer anything more, continues. “Danny’s been going out as you,” she says, almost accusatory then, “ever since…” her voice hitches over the next words, “Midland Circle.” 

“But the reports… God, Matt. What this guy did at the Bulletin…” She trails off.

Matt sighs, running a hand through his hair. “It’s complicated.” Suddenly, the weight of the last several weeks overtakes him at once.

Claire seems to understand that Matt’s not talking about the Daredevil imposter. “Complicated?” Her arms drop to her sides, opening up an unbreachable divide between them, and she huffs out a short, bitter laugh. “What was so complicated about picking up a phone?” She looks down at her feet, and her tone takes on a harder edge, “Just saying, it would’ve been nice to have gotten a short, ‘Hello, by the way, I’m not dead’ heads-up.”

Matt bows his head. Her words, eerily familiar, echo another missed connection, another time he had failed her, right after Hell’s Kitchen imploded. Surrounded by compromised cops, uncertain who to trust, with his only link to Fisk grievously injured, he’d called her because she was all he had. She had helped him then and in return, he vanished on her in the aftermath. 

At the time, he tried to convince himself it was better that way. It was bad enough that his life was imploding more spectacularly than Hell’s Kitchen, set upon by Fisk’s bombs, had; that it was dragging down everyone and everything unlucky enough to be associated with him in its wake, but Claire had saved him when she didn’t even have a name to go along with his face and gotten stuffed into the back of a taxi for her trouble. When he thinks back to the morning after he found her, of the patchwork of bruises dotting her skin, tiny islands of heat and broken blood vessels and pain, he flushes with shame. 

The memory also brings with it, unbidden, a different sort of flush. He remembers the robe she had borrowed slipping down over smooth shoulders; he remembers placing gentle hands on her back, listening for injuries in the minute shifts in bone and cartilage under velvet skin, discovering the rush of heat and interest neither of them could conceal.

He winces. She had wisely stepped back from getting further entangled in his mess, he reminds himself – precisely because she encountered the Devil first and not Matt Murdock, the lie he assumes to move through the world. And any kindness she’s shown him after that – patching him up after his fight with Nobu, aiding the kids he found at the underground Hand facility – all came courtesy of Claire’s essential goodness. She could no more turn away from someone in need than Foggy, accepting cases for casseroles, or Karen, in dogged pursuit of a lead to help an accused murderer find justice, could. 

Claire’s arms are crossed now, hugging her chest while she continues to regard him steadily, and Matt suddenly feels cold. He’s floundering, he realizes, but he doesn’t know what to say, what words would magically fix things. Finally he settles on, “How did you know where I’d be?” 

A deep sigh at the obvious evasion. “Your friend, Foggy… he called; said there’d be a gathering at his parents’ after Father Lantom’s funeral.” She hesitates for the length of a beat before adding, “I’m really sorry about what happened to Father Lantom. Foggy said you were close.”

The ache that Matt thought he had temporarily banished is back, threatening to swallow him whole. “Yeah”, he chokes out. “He was a good man. And he died defending those who depended on him.” His voice sounds rough to his ears and he knows he should stop there, but he can’t help adding, “He died because I wasn’t fast enough or good enough to save him.” Reflexively, he grips the handle of his cane with both hands, the skin across his knuckles tight, his lips pressed into a thin line.

Another sigh, pulled from a deep reservoir reserved, it seems, especially for him. “Matt,” she starts, suddenly hesitant, “Look, I obviously don’t know what you’ve been through… what you’re still going through…” He makes an aborted attempt to speak, but her hands wave small arcs in the air, cutting him off. “No. No, you don’t have to say anything.” 

The defensive posture is gone. Errant strands of hair stream past Claire’s face as she reaches up to cradle his cheek, and her next words tumble out in a rush. “But if I know anything about you, Matt Murdock, you did everything possible, everything possible, to save him. I can’t imagine anything less.” 

Despite his resolve to keep her at a remove, he helplessly leans into her touch, pushing against the warmth of her fingers, their worn calluses familiar landmarks against his sensitive skin. 

Abruptly, she withdraws her hand. When she speaks again, her voice is still shaky, but considerably steadier than before. “For what it’s worth, I’m really glad you’re okay.” She takes a step back and he reacts without thinking – an answering step forward before he catches himself. 

“Please take care of yourself, Matt.” Claire sounds sad, resigned, and her heartbeat finally smooths out into the steadfast metronome he hadn’t allowed himself to miss. These parting words, they’re not enough, they’re more than he deserves. 

She turns to go, leaving him rooted where he stands, there on the sidewalk as dusk edges into evening, until the long column of her retreating back vanishes in the crowd.


	2. Claire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As she approaches the café, her hand already halfway in her purse to pull out her wallet in anticipation of the line, Claire notices through the gleaming window a commotion near the cash register, situated at the far end of a narrow oak bar. She almost turns on her heel and changes course – it’s her first day at her new-old-job back at Metro General and she couldn’t afford to be late and didn’t need a cup of coffee that badly – but her natural curiosity pulls at her, as does her impulse to help.

As she approaches the café, her hand already halfway in her purse to pull out her wallet in anticipation of a short line, Claire notices through the gleaming window a commotion near the cash register, situated at the far end of a narrow oak bar. She almost turns on her heel and changes course – it’s her first day at her new-old-job back at Metro General and she couldn’t afford to be late and doesn’t need a cup of coffee that badly – but her natural curiosity pulls at her, as does her impulse to help. 

The bell on the door chimes when she pushes it open with her shoulder. Years spent manning a hospital ER has left her with the skills of a battle-worn general – a quick glance and she’s already assessed the situation. 

There’s a crowd of people thronged around a figure lying supine on the floor. Feet encased in suspiciously familiar dress shoes breach the otherwise solid wall of bodies and a red tipped cane is tossed carelessly to the side just beyond it. 

Dammit, Matt. 

She surges forward, coffee forgotten, and nearly knocks down a harried-looking woman in a pencil skirt balancing a cup of tea with one hand and a laptop tucked to her chest with the other. Bodies part before Claire with the ease of a bow of a boat cleaving water, and she drops into a well-practiced crouch next to Matt’s head.

He’s unconscious, dressed for work, in a dark suit, a crisp white shirt and a tie loosely knotted at the neck. His glasses are knocked askew, but still on his face. Gently, Claire lifts them away. There’s a healing cut on one cheek and dark shadows, like smudges of ink, sit under both eyes. He looks exhausted. 

Tenderly, she brushes the hair off his forehead and frowns at the dampness her fingers encounter. It’s cool out, but he’s pale and sweating. She presses her fingers to his neck and is reassured to find a strong pulse thrumming under the clammy skin. 

Starting from his head, she runs her hands over him, searching for bumps, cuts, spots that are sensitive. Finding nothing obvious, she sits back on her heels, considering her options. Someone – the barista behind the bar, Claire realizes – edges closer, looks over her shoulder at Matt’s prone figure, “Should we call an ambulance?”

Claire shakes her head, thinking of Matt’s near allergic aversion to hospitals. “No, I think he’ll be alright. Let’s just give him some air, okay?” She shoots a reproachful glare at their audience and cowed, they took a collective step back, slowly dispersing.

When she turns her attention back to Matt, she notices a grimace, the minutest of flashes, cross his features. He groans and attempts to shift to his side, trying to push himself up on his elbows. “Claire? What are…,” his eyelids flutter open, the confusion plain on his face. 

“Yeah, Matt, it’s me. Can you tell me what happened?” She catches the eye of the barista, who’d returned to her station behind the bar, and brings her hand to her mouth, miming drinking from a glass.

“Easy, there. Easy,” Claire warns, placing her hand behind his back and helping him sit up. 

The barista appears with a glass of water that Claire accepts gratefully with a smile. She brings the glass to Matt’s lips and he sips from it cautiously, one arm hooked around a bent knee. Already, he seems steadier. 

With one hand, he loosens the tie at his neck and clears his throat experimentally before speaking. “I got a little dizzy. I’m not sure why.” His hands pat the ground around him for his glasses. When they’re back on his face, the tension in his shoulders, almost imperceptibly, eases. If Claire hadn’t been so well-versed in Matt Murdock-ese, she might not have detected it.

She snorts, “You’re not sure why? Has anyone told you lately that you look like crap?” 

He cracks a wry smile at that, the corners of his mouth turning up. Besides the pallor and the bruise-like shadows, now concealed by the glasses, under his eyes, he seems fragile, she notes unhappily. More so than he did months ago – when she ambushed him after Father Lantom’s funeral, when she had to see for herself the proof of his existence in this world. 

Claire frowns at the memory. Foggy’s call that day had set off a war between her heart and mind – not surprisingly, her heart had won.

Tilting her head, she watches him carefully. “Remember that candle we talked about? Yours looks in danger of fizzling out again.” She frowns when he drifts, snapping her fingers in front of his face. “Sorry,” she says when he winces. 

He coughs. “I might be having trouble sleeping lately,” he admits finally. “Cases are piling up at the office and crime has stepped up again on the streets.”

Claire bites back a knee-jerk response, something about leaving some work for the NYPD to handle, and instead shoves an opened granola bar she unearthed from the depths of her purse into his hands, “Eat this.” His nose wrinkles delicately and she wonders if he’s smelling the endless packets of mints or the old worn notebook vying for space alongside those granola bars in her purse, but he takes the offering obediently and chews. 

“Okay, where can I take you?” She’s suddenly all brusque efficiency. “Your office? It’s nearby right?”

Matt shakes his head. “Clinton Church is closer. And it’s quieter, more peaceful than the office at this time of day. It’ll give me a chance to catch my breath.” 

It’s a short two blocks away, Claire knew. She’d been avoiding the neighborhood ever since that evening she sought him out – she’d never quite ascertained what Matt’s range was, but she definitely didn’t want to chance being found out lurking around. 

At any rate, it was better to stay away. God knows, she’s had her fill of NY’s vigilantes, enough to last a lifetime and then some. Despite herself, she sneaks a glance at Matt, who seems to have recovered from the episode, his features again assembled into a portrait of preternatural calm.

***

The church, as Matt had guessed, is mostly empty at this time of day. When they cross its threshold, the sounds of the city drop away, as if an invisible barrier had been erected at the heavy oak doors. A few parishioners are congregated in loose clumps near the altar, their voices pitched low. 

The cavernous space is dark. Pale light streams through the stained glass windows at one end of the nave, scattering jewel-toned rays over the arches arranged like curved ribs in the vault ceiling and alighting on the rows of pews facing the pulpit. 

Matt crosses himself and slips into the last pew on the right, his head bowed over the hands clasped in his lap. After a moment, Claire follows suit, settling on the hard bench besides him. 

When he finally speaks, his voice is subdued. “When my dad died and I moved to the orphanage, my senses were so overwhelmed. I was suddenly in an environment where I had no privacy, no pockets of quiet. I was eating, playing, sleeping with forty other kids, all the time.” He leans forward and props his elbows on his knees, his dark head in his hands. “I’d sneak up here, just for a little relief, and Father Lantom would sit with me – sometimes helping me work through things, sometimes just being with me.” 

He sighs, raising his head to “look” at her, eyes inscrutable behind his glasses. “Even when he wasn’t a part of my daily life, knowing he was here, it was comforting – you know?” Claire nodded, not trusting herself to speak. 

“And now that he’s gone, Matthew finds that I’m a piss-poor substitute,” comes a voice, sarcastic and amused, from behind them. 

Claire starts. The woman who’d approached them – the nun, she corrects herself – had crept in so silently that Claire hadn’t realized she was there until she was upon them. Her small, serious face is framed by a wimple, and the hem of her black habit is grey where it touches the floor. 

“What are you doing here in the middle of the day?” the nun’s tone is mild, but there’s tension in the way she holds herself – wary, as if she expects to be turned away. 

The expression on Matt’s face is a little wary too as he rises to his feet. “It’s nothing – felt a little dizzy on my way to work. Figured recovering here was better than at the office.” Midway through the process of gathering up his cane and briefcase, he pauses, as if he was considering something. “Actually, if that coffee machine is still in the kitchen, I’d love a latte before we head out.” 

The nun looks pleased, tamping down a smile. “Of course,” she says; then turns her attention to Claire – “I’m Sister Maggie, by the way. I run the orphanage associated with the church.”

Matt barks out a soft laugh and covers it with a cough, “She’s my mother, Claire. And mom,” he says, gesturing in Claire’s general direction, “this is Claire.”


	3. Claire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The church kitchen has clearly seen better days – the mint-green Formica countertops are worn and starting to peel at the edges, while the six-burner stove clanks loudly whenever it’s turned on. But the surfaces are clean and tidy and a gleaming espresso machine, looking impossibly out of place with its brass finishes and maple-accented handles, sits near the toaster.

The church kitchen has clearly seen better days – the mint-green Formica countertops are worn and starting to peel at the edges, while the six-burner stove clanks loudly whenever it’s turned on. But the surfaces are clean and tidy and a gleaming espresso machine, looking impossibly out of place with its brass finishes and maple-accented handles, sits near the toaster. 

Maggie’s in front of the machine, pulling shots and frothing milk, with the practiced ease of a coffeehouse barista. They wait at one of the long tables – probably, Claire guesses, the site of innumerable church gatherings presided over by Father Lantom. Matt’s quiet, contemplative, with his elbows on the hard, plastic surface and chin balanced on folded hands. 

Silence. Except for the hiss of steam and the hum from the ancient refrigerator. Claire glances again at Matt. His color is a little better, Claire decides, but his eyes behind the glasses are closed – through the red, she can see his lashes brush up against the lenses. 

Maggie’s back is turned to them as she works. Claire recognizes the tense set of her shoulders – so like her son that even if Matt hadn’t revealed her identity, she might have been able to guess it, given enough time. 

Matt’s mother. Even inside Claire’s head, the words sounded strange, off, like they belonged to an alternate script, a bizarre universe she doesn’t recognize. She’s known Matt, the friend; Matt, the almost-maybe lover; Matt, the avenging vigilante; Matt, the mild-mannered, competent lawyer – but Matt, the son? 

It had been Jess, halfway to drunk at one of their rare post-Midland Circle gatherings, who had whispered-shouted what she’d uncovered about Matt’s tragic backstory (the dead dad, the absent mom, years in an orphanage) – back when all Matt had been to her was an annoying do-gooder lawyer sent by Hogarth to extricate her from the hospitality of the NYPD. 

Their faces had blanched, hearing this. Somehow this knowledge made an unfair death even worse, as if the string of abandonments had traced an unerring path towards several meters of rubble, unrevealed until the denouement. She saw it reflected in Danny’s wide, earnest eyes, in the barest clench of Luke’s jaw, in the delicate furrow of Colleen’s brow. Worrying her lower lip with her teeth, she knew it was reflected in her face too. 

And although Matt had never explicitly said anything, Claire had guessed things between him and Foggy were strained then. Their interaction at the police station – where Matt and the others were brought following Danny’s kidnapping – was warm, but distant – nothing like the intimacy (and panic) that had characterized the first interaction she had observed between them.

At the very least, they were no longer working together (or hadn’t been). Shortly after the Castle case and the unflattering publicity it generated, Foggy transferred to Hogarth’s swanky practice uptown while Matt continued working mostly pro-bono from, as far as she could determine, his apartment. 

But even before this, she had seen evidence of Matt fraying around the carefully placed seams holding him together – pushing away his support system, fashioning himself into an impassive sentry, guarding the city he loved so well; while just underneath the surface, the fissures were widening, deepening, about to give completely under the strain. He had seemed so brittle then.

The clunk of a mug being set down in front of her breaks Claire’s reverie. Maggie sets down another mug in front of Matt and pulls out a chair to sit opposite them with a third mug cradled in her hands. 

Maggie takes a careful sip from it before speaking. “You haven’t come around in a while.” Her voice, all studied nonchalance, is even. 

Matt sighs and pulls himself up to sit straighter in his chair. “I know. I’ve been busy at work. I’ve been meaning to stop by. Really.”

She pushes away her mug, rests her chin in her palm, and regards him with a piercing gaze. “Does your reluctance have anything to do with Father Lantom’s replacement?” 

Matt scowls, “No.” He opens his mouth as if to say something more, but thinks better of it and falls silent.

Claire laughs, “Okay, I may not have a built-in lie detector, Murdock, but even I could tell you were lying.” Maggie smirks and again, Claire is struck by the similarities between mother and son. 

Maggie’s expression softens and she leans forward. “I know he’s not Paul, Matthew. But he can help, if you let him.” At Matt’s pained expression, she hesitates. “You’re not good with new people.” It wasn’t a question. 

He doesn’t respond, so Maggie tries a different tack. “From what you’ve told me of Claire, you warmed to her right away.” 

Claire flushes, hoping vainly Matt doesn’t notice the heat blooming in her cheeks, and covers up her discomfort at Maggie’s words with a light laugh. “Well, I found him unconscious in a dumpster outside my apartment. I think his choices at the time were pretty limited.” Only belatedly does it occur to Claire that perhaps Maggie hadn’t heard this story – or that she might not want to.

But Maggie just nods, serene. “He must have been insufferable.” The offended look on Matt’s face is almost comical, but he wisely keeps his mouth shut. “His father was the same. I used to patch him up after bad bouts in the ring.” Her eyes dart away.

Claire recognizes what Maggie’s doing and she feels an unexpected stab of sympathy. She’s trying, in her way, to connect with her son. Without knowing the circumstances, Claire can only guess what forces were at work to pull mother away from son, but she seems eager to connect now, even when she’s so obviously holding herself back. Claire suspects her presence might actually help – leaching out some of the tension a more fraught one-on-one meeting might have contained.

She flicks a glance up at Matt, noting where a line of neat stitches sits just under his hairline, before directing her next words at Maggie – “You have a steady hand.” Claire reaches out and brushes Matt’s forehead gently, the skin there slightly raised and pinker than the surrounding tissue, but otherwise healed. Feeling Maggie’s sharp scrutiny on her, she self-consciously withdraws her hand and tucks it in her lap. A fleeting smile, so brief that Claire isn’t sure she saw it, alights on Maggie’s face before it’s replaced by the wariness they first encountered upstairs. 

“Luckily for me, yes, she does,” Matt says quietly. His left hand wanders to his chest, fingers brushing against the fabric lightly. Claire wonders what wound he’s remembering – when it was sustained, how bad it was, where she was at the time – probably, she thinks ruefully, holding the rapidly disintegrating pieces of her life together. 

Again, a flash of anger ignites deep inside her – at being kept in the dark, held at arm’s length, discounted. She bows her head and sighs. Distantly, a part of her recognizes she isn’t thinking rationally, nor is she being fair. The woman who had pushed Matt away had a neat little life with neat little boxes; she had recognized Matt for the damaged, self-destructive soul he is, and was unwilling to risk heart and head to wade in further; but that woman doesn’t exist anymore – she might have always been a convenient fiction, and Claire’s still puzzling out the woman in her stead.

“I think he’s asleep,” Maggie notes with amusement. Surprised, Claire realizes she’s right. Matt’s head is resting on the table, cushioned by crossed arms, shoulders rising and falling with each even breath.

Chair legs scrape the floor softly when Maggie pushes herself away from the table and starts gathering up the mugs. “I told him he needed to rest more, give himself some time off – if not from the practice than at least from the nighttime work.” Claire hears the tap run for a moment before Maggie shuts it off, wiping her hands on the dishtowel slotted through the fridge handle. “But he says it’s been busy out there – nature abhors a vacuum I suppose.” 

There’s a hitch in her breathing and then she turns to face Claire. “For what it’s worth, he’s spoken of you a lot,” Maggie says, watching her, eyes bright and penetrating. 

Shaking her head slowly, Claire’s apologetic. “I’m afraid I can’t say the same.” 

But Maggie’s unperturbed. “Matthew’s discovery – it was recent. He’s always known me as Sister Maggie.” Her chin lifts slightly, her gaze is steady. “I have my regrets, but he’s a good man – for all his flaws. And I believe he misses you.”

Claire casts another glance at Matt, still silent and sprawled on the table. “There was something there once – a long time ago. Maybe, now…” The sentence trails off, she’s uncertain how to end it.

Maggie nods, understanding. “Murdocks are challenging,” she muses, and Claire wonders if she’s thinking of the father or the son. 

“But the overtures will have to be yours, I’m afraid. Whether he’s conscious of it or not, Matthew doesn’t believe he deserves good people in his life.” Fond exasperation colors her voice. “And how he talks about you – you must be very good indeed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh - so hard to do dialogue! And I'm not entirely satisfied with the ending. And this is pre-Claire/Matt not Claire/Matt proper, but hopefully that's close enough. I might come back to edit this later, but for now, it's done.

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fanfiction Exchange - so I'm nervous! I hope my giftee likes it.
> 
> JokerStark had some amazing prompts - including AUs of Matt as Zorro and Matt as Merlin. But I decided to go simpler - I took their Medici theme show prompt (https://youtu.be/HnUD4VDOCq0) along with their relationship prompts -- Matt/Claire and Matt & Sister Maggie -- and wrote a little coda to Season 3: What would happen if Matt and Claire met again after the craziness with Fisk was over?
> 
> I'm 400 words into the last chapter. JokerStark wanted a little angst and a little fluff -- hopefully I can deliver (somewhat) on both.
> 
> Title is from the Medici theme song -- it's Latin and I think it means "Simplicity of the Heart"... (please correct me if I'm wrong!)


End file.
